


A Whole City Suffers

by Mussimm



Series: Works and Days [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7357792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mussimm/pseuds/Mussimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven deadly sins post-canon ficlets. Jaime POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greed

Wine was always the Lannister weakness. Jaime drained the dregs of another cup. He'd seen endless flagons drained down his brother and sister's throats, drops spilling onto their chins, catching in Tyrion's beard, red reflected in their eyes.

He felt it now, that sort of red-hot oblivion that they so obviously craved. Inside he raged against the unfairness of the world, letting himself sink into self-pity without guilt gnawing at him. Recriminations were a morning activity. Tywin's voice only existed in a sober mind.

He hadn't called for Bronn to join him, and maybe he should have. At least the sellsword would give him something else to focus on. Well, maybe not. More likely Jaime would find himself needled about all his failures and denials. Slayer of a mad king, lover of a mad queen. Not a father any longer.

_Going to shove a sword through this one?_ He could almost hear Bronn's voice.

With a growl he poured another cup of wine. What was the point of drinking alone if he just spent the time imagining those he was avoiding? He needed no reminding of his failures. That he hadn't been bothered since he'd started his overindulgence was proof enough for that. No one would seek him out, he was Kingsguard without a king. Ser Robert Strong hovered over the queen like a spectre and he never slept. And now there was no one else to guard. Tommen dead. Margaery dead.

Jaime drained the cup in a single draw. He could still see Cersei's face. His beautiful golden twin in Crow black and Targaryen silver. Watching him. Daring him to condemn her.

His head was swimming just enough to be angry at her and her alone. She had actually done it, listened to all his stupid promises and threats. He'd promised her that they'd burn the whole world until there was nothing left except the two of them. Surely anyone, _anyone_ , would be wise enough to know those were the words of a love-drunk man, never intended to see the light of day.

Just to torture himself he pulled up the image of Brienne, eyes wide with fear. Honour compels me...

Honour compelled her. He let out a bitter laugh. Honour compelled her and as usual that meant it compelled him. She would never raise a hand that might hurt him in any way unless it was for the sake of her beloved honour. He tried to picture Cersei's defiance on her face and couldn't. Even then, when his Wench talked of facing him in righteous battle, it was with the most solemn regret.

It was an argument staged in his own head between two who weren't present.

_You weren't here, you left me. Alone. You took too long._

_You're a knight, Ser Jaime. I know there is honour in you._

In Cersei's voice he was a coward and a traitor, but a wanted one. In Brienne's he was a distant idol, full of all the things he craved but cold and alone.

If she just... if she just understood, how much easier it would be. If he could take her and shake her by the shoulders and yell at her that he didn't want cup after cup of wine, he didn't want a warm bed or steely camaraderie. He wanted them both. He wanted a warm, giving welcome from someone who admired him, why should he have to choose?

But of course he always had a warm welcome from Cersei, nothing was warmer than wildfire.

And of course he had Brienne's admiration, nothing bought admiration like sacrifice.

If he couldn't have both, mayhaps it was smarter to have neither.

He poured another cup of wine.


	2. Pride

_Lady Sansa, I am writing to enquire after the health of -_

No. Gods no. Jaime scrunched up the parchment and tossed it to the side.

He pulled out a fresh piece and held his quill over it. And held it. And held it. What could he say? Anything bearing the Lannister seal would undoubtedly be read aloud to the Stark war council before even checking its contents. He told himself that he didn't want to embarrass the lady.

It was a soldierly matter. He'd given her safe conduct, it was only right to make sure that she'd made it back to her own camp safely.

Wasn't it?

It had been a long time since he'd been involved in hostage exchanges. On account of his imprisonment he'd all but missed the last war. He'd been with Aerys. Had Aerys ever checked on the wellbeing of someone he'd granted passage? With hostages the arrival was proved when the exchanged prisoner was returned to them.

It would only be right of Brienne or, if not her, Lady Sansa, to let _him_ know that she'd returned safely. In truth they were the ones breaking courtesy.

_Lady Sansa,_ he wrote. _Surely you have been remiss in not sending me word that Lady Brienne -_

No. He couldn't say her name. No matter how he worded it as soon as he said her name it sounded like a love note in his ears. He scrunched up the note and drew a fresh sheet.

She would turn red. Not dainty, maidenly pink but  bright, blotched red. It would be hard enough for her to maintain her dignity in a camp full of men without getting personal notes from an enemy commander. The name 'Kingslayer's Whore' had murmured around his camp at Riverrun when the men were drunk enough and he wasn't going to send it on the Winterfell.

Jaime tried to straighten the frown that had set itself into his face while he was distracted. He licked his parched lips.

Sometimes he caught word of her. It hadn't been since before Riverrun. Sometimes it wasn't even her, but her father or one of Renly's rainbow guard. A message, a sighting, some event three times removed from her that nonetheless brought her name out into the open. In those small council meetings her name would spring up without warning and he was sure the whole room could tell how his heart skipped a beat, that they were only pretending to continue the discussion unfazed.

But Brienne had no facade, she would never remain calm and stoic. It was only too pleasing, the idea of making her flustered with embarrassment from a few hundred leagues away. But only in thought. He wouldn't humiliate her like that.

On the other hand, Jaime had plenty of experience ignoring humiliation for himself. And, on occasion, to ensure his wench's safety.

_Lady Sansa,_

_As it appears no one has informed you, it is customary to thank the crown for allowing your wench safe passage through our territory. If I see another agent of your traitorous rebellion in my camp, I'll send you back their head._

_Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer_


	3. Envy

"How can you possibly be happy with this?" Jaime demanded.

Bronn shrugged and took a loud, crunchy bite out of a fresh red apple. He spoke with his mouth full. "This is the reward your family promised me. Are you trying to talk me into raising my price?"

The sea breeze was so loud his words were whipped away on it. Their usual sparring spot was overgrown from disuse. Jaime leaned against the stone edging, looking out over the sea. He would never understand Bronn.

"She's a lackwit. And a _Florent_ ," he said.

"The last loyal Florent. I thought loyalty was right up your alley."

Jaime scoffed, restraining himself from pulling that stupid crunchy apple out of his friend's hands. "She's only loyal because her father's dead and she's too stupid to actually stand for anything."

"Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Florents were the second most powerful family in the Reach and Highgarden is looking fairly empty these days."

How easy it must be to be bought off. How black and white the world must look, or rather black and red, when it was all recorded on a ledger.

"And when she talks to you for the hundredth time about embroidery or dresses or dancing?"

Bron shrugged again. "I'll say 'yes, dear' while soaking in my bathtub of arbor gold."

"Doesn't anything matter to you?"

There was a glint of humour in the sellsword's eye that made Jaime grimace. He had the feeling that the jape was at his expense. "Aye, lots of things. Gold, which she's got. A tight cunt, which she's got and so do all the whores her gold will buy. Sons to squabble over my favour, she'll give me a few of those, too. We're not all waiting for Florian to come steal our virtue."

"Why do I ever seek out your company?" Jaime muttered.

Bronn threw his apple core into the sea. He had a new swagger to his step, this betrothed man, this future Lord of Highgarden. It must be a wonderful thing to buy all you own with coin and never honour or reputation. How much happier would he be if he still cared more about Cersei's golden hair than her rotten innards?

Jaime picked up a small rock from the embankment and hurled it into the sea. That was what he should want. He was Lord of Casterly Rock. He should find the prettiest maiden in the Seven Kingdoms and ask for her hand. Buy her from her father like a prized mare. Be like old Walder Frey and have a whole string of them, each younger than the last until it was a disgrace to anyone who looked upon him. No one would care so long as it wasn't his sister or a fellow knight.

That was what he should want.

He laughed at himself. A joke since the day he slew Aerys. "Invite me to your wedding. Maybe your Florent girl has a sister."


	4. Sloth

"Don't sulk. I hate it when you sulk." Cersei was cast orange and red in the sunset, light pouring in over her balcony. The Light of the West.

"Then we are at an impasse, sweet sister, because I am not merry." Jaime leaned his chin against his golden hand, unable to bring himself to adjust it and ease the chaffing.

She was in her cups again, as always at this time of night. She swept about the solar, long black gown dragging against the stone floor. Her anger with him mounted every day, every minute. He knew that she was dangerous, even moreso now, but he also knew if he'd displeased her there was little point in making amends. She would have her pound of flesh any way she saw fit.

"Rail against the gods if you wish, I did what had to be done," she hissed.

"I'm certain the families of the dead take great comfort in that."

"People die every day to protect their king or queen. Do you think yourself so superior for marching starving farmhands for months on end to die in their own shit? At least I gave them the mercy of a quick death."

Anything but this argument again. He sighed into his false hand, wishing he had some more convincing argument against her destruction of the Faith. Kings had done worse in destroying their enemies. His immediate family had done worse. There was no way of telling Cersei how closely she danced to the sheer edge of a lunatic's tyranny. Instead he just watched the sunset.

The _snick_ of a clasp unfastening drew his attention. Cersei let her heavy necklace clatter to the table beside her, her back to him. She started to work on the ties to her dress as if he wasn't there.

 _I don't want you!_ he wanted to yell. She was right, he wanted to rage against the gods. Why had they cursed him, why had they turned a blind eye while he cursed himself? Instead he watched her shed her layers of clothing, one at a time. If he denied her now he didn't know what form her fury would take, if it would be against him or the world at large. He just didn't have it in him to weather another blow tonight.

"I don't want to fight," Cersei said, her back still toward him, wearing only a sheer shift.

If the gods could just give him strength, he would go to her. Soothe her. Buy the city another day. He was Rhaella, he realised. Her king would watch the fire and then go to his sister-lover to soothe his blood afterwards. The morning might bring bloodied bite marks on his skin. He might have to limp, sobbing, to his own chambers in the hope of finding comfort. The new Kingsguard might have furious, whispered arguments about protecting him.

In this scenario Bronn was his handmaiden, the only one who might tend his wounds afterwards. Jaime managed a smile. He wouldn't tell the sellsword, but the thought of his reaction was enough to momentarily buoy him.

Jaime drained the cup sitting by his elbow and stood.

 _The war for Cersei's cunt is over,_ he thought wryly. _And lucky me, I won._

Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe a knight braver and more honourable than he had ever been would come to save him.


	5. Lust

He read and reread the letter, trying to make sense of it. Certainly the letters had jumped around into something absurd because Lord Selwyn could not have written what he was reading.

_...if you feel any loyalty to my daughter, aid me in finding her a match. Northerners are more to her tastes and it is said that your family pays its debts_.

Surely the man hadn't seen his daughter in years, did he know her at all? Jaime could only think of old stern Ned Stark and how amused that man might have been at the prospecting of marrying a lumbering great wench. For all the Northern Lords talked about the harsh winters they certainly seemed to favour dainty little flowers destined for birthing bed deaths.

A mocking voice in the back of his head began to take form - reminding him of the warrior maids of Bear Island, Fat Walda Bolton, whatever woman could withstand Greatjon Umber - but he quashed it, his mind fixed firmly on dainty Catelyn Stark and Roslin Frey. No, the Northmen would suit her no more than the Southron ones.

And besides, simply matching her to some inbred ogre who looked and smelled like a bear was not a solution. He would... he wouldn't treat her right. Brienne needed a man who admired her, who would be gentle with her heart.

An image leapt into his mind unbidden, Brienne spread on a dingy cot, clutching a threadbare shift around her waist as some stinking wildling with black teeth rutted atop her. In his mind her eyes were closed, her jaw set as she did her duty. Jaime scowled at the thought. 

No, he wanted her in a feather bed so soft she sunk into it, pink skin against pale silk sheets, biting her lip in suppressed mirth and with bare toes curling in joy. He wanted her holding out her hand to her husband as she clutched a Lannister red bedcover to her chest, covering the blush that crept down from her cheeks.

Jaime jerked himself out of the fantasy. It had to be that way. If he father wanted anything else for her he was a fool and didn't deserve her.

The thrice-damned voice of conscience told him that his petulance was not going to help Brienne. Northerners weren't all wildlings and she wouldn't be made happy by silk sheets or white teeth.

Jaime staunchly ignored that voice. If she would one day be chained to some rotten bear or wolf, he could at least buy her a while longer to do as she needed.

He rose and made for his door. The first way to buy that time was to delay his response as log as possible, and at that moment he needed to fight or fuck or drink or do whatever it took to get the image of Brienne belonging to another man out of his head.


	6. Gluttony

_The Stark girl is sending an envoy from Winterfell._

The words rang in Jaime's head, louder and louder, like the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor which still law strewn over half the city.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling in the hour of the wolf. Should he be terrified that Cersei would have all their heads the second they stepped in the city? Excited at the prospect of seeing Brienne again, their friendship receiving one more stay of execution? A perfect fool for even believing she'd be among the party?

Oh, he could see her clear as day, doing as she did, as they both did. That stoic expression, always on the other side of the room, one hand on Oathkeeper and the other loose at her side. It looked all the more convincing when she stood behind her lady, he'd wager. It was their dance since Harrenhal, the only time he could remember them breaking step was when she wanted to chastise him for leaving Sansa in Kings Landing as Tyrion's wife.

He could say something sincere and get that blue-eyed look she gave him.

Jaime groaned and pulled a pillow over his face. A perfect fool, he decided. She was Lady Sansa's sword shield, she wouldn't leave her lady's side and Sansa wouldn't be in her own envoy.

Although she'd been at Riverrun. If negotiation with the Blackfish wasn't too distant, surely Kings Landing was within her duties.

He could say something callous and get that imperious look. The one that told him she had less time for him than the corns on her feet.

He could spend all month thinking of ways to provoke her but it wouldn't be enough. The times he remembered, the times he couldn't get out of his head, were all of her creation. Her ferocious in the bear pit, bleeding and desperate and angry and strong in the pink dress that he would never admit he sort of liked on her. Telling him to take the Stark girls home and consider his debt paid, knowing her fate if he left her. Vowing to find those girls, for Lady Catelyn and for him. Trying to give back his priceless gift when she felt she owed it.

Just one more. He just wanted one more of those moments.

He didn't know which god to pray to for that. They would all tut disapprovingly and tell him to get a good wife and forget the wench he could never have. It might have been time for a new religion. What was the Drowned God's view on hopeless infatuation?

A smirk spread across his face as he remembered her almost casual defeat of him in the Riverlands. She was so irritated. Everyone for twenty years had been terrified of facing the Kingslayer, but not Brienne. Brienne was irritated. She rose out of the water at Harrenhal, ready to let him drown in the bath when he pushed her beyond her limits. He had been shocked, above all else to find himself staring at a woman. He had forgotten. For all he made mockery of her sex he had forgotten that she was a woman until faced with soft blonde curls and flushed skin and a pair of hips that looked ripe to be grabbed and hauled against him.

Jaime let his good hand stray down below the bedcover, thinking of acres of skin that had looked delectable in that moment.

_Once more_ , he thought, prayed. _Come to Kings Landing and surprise me just once more._

 


	7. Wrath

"I heard you couldn't tell her from the bear."

The words echoed about the training yard, followed by raucous laughter. Jaime watched the knights who sparred with blunted swords, unsure which one had spoken until one mimed a hulking person and spurred them to more laughter.

Addam Marbrand sat at his side and, as Jaime moved to stand, lay a hand on his elbow.

Jaime looked down at where the man's hand lay, then up at him, questioning.

Marbrand didn't even look at him, still observing the knights. "You're not helping her."

"I can't say what you mean, ser," Jaime said. "I was just going to give the young man a lesson in courtesy concerning highborn maids."

"Aye," said the older man. "And make it worse for a highborn maid. You think they haven't heard about Red Ronnet?"

The day Jaime apologised for knocking out Ronnet Connington's teeth was the day he grew a new hand. And even then he wouldn't apologise for it to Addam Marbrand. "You know people have told me for years to be more honourable. Now I'm getting chastised for it by my man-at-arms. My father would have - "

"No, don't tell me." Marbrand was still inattentive. "Ripped up his family tree, root and stem. Wrote a song about it afterwards. And he would have. For his _lady wife_. So unless you secretly wed the girl in Harrenhal, stay sitting. A man fears for his family's life, he doesn't fear getting into a fight with a one-handed man twice his age. Might even look forward to it."

Jaime might have dressed the old man down for talking to his lord in such a tone, but knew he was right. The simmer of annoyance he'd felt at the initial jape was rising to genuine anger. All his wealth and power and he couldn't even defend a lady's honour.

"There's nothing to the rumours," he growled. If there was, the situation may not have been so frustrating. If there was, she would be _here_ and those little dandies would have to contend with an enraged giantress instead of an aged lion missing a paw.

"Is that why Red Ronnet isn't so pretty nowadays?"

Marbrand was mocking him. Even his own man.

"Am I the only one who cares for the dignity of a knight who saved his life? Half the knights on long campaigns end up buggering each other, but I'm the hopeless Jonquil for not wanting to hear her mocked? At least I left her a maid." He hated this place, he realised. So much had been good before Riverrun, and now it was all ashes along with the Great Sept.

"Maybe if you hadn't left her a maid the two of you wouldn't be such a low-lying fruit," Marbrand said.

"To the hells with all of you," Jaime growled. He rose to his feet and strode from the yard.

He'd find Bronn. At least he still had the gold to make someone say what he wanted to hear.


End file.
